


Diptych

by Bladestar123



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), 鬼滅の刃 | Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (Anime), 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladestar123/pseuds/Bladestar123
Summary: Gyomei Himejima is offered a lead he cannot refuse. A portrait of two worlds, yet the trail of blood crosses both. What answers can be found between them?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Good Moon Hunting I

With a sound like church bells, the deed was done.  
  
The last of the beasts slipped away into the night, bloodied compatriots left behind. Gascoigne watched them go grimly, Henryk behind him already walking away.  
  
“Another night gone, Hunter.” He grumbled, hefting his axe. “And still no leads.”  
  
“We must keep looking.” Thin lips tightened behind a shadowed collar, Yharnam-suited Hunter standing ill-at ease in the wet streets. “This is where they crawled out of the sewers en masse, they will have reason to be here.”  
  
“Good hunter!” Henryk catcalled behind them. “Oh _moon-scented_ hunter, oh lord, oh savior! Please, oh _please_ , let me _shoooow_ you my leads!”  
  
Gascoigne let out a hoarse chuckle of his own, finally letting his shoulders slump. Turning away from the mound of bodies, bells rang once more as Gascoigne finally dismantled his axe. “Henryk is correct again. No further clues will be found this night.” He grunted, turning away from the cowled man. “Hunter, these streets grow bright once more. It’s time for you to go.”  
  
“I understand.” The Hunter spoke soberly. “I am sorry, Father. To have raised hopes where-”  
  
“Where _none_ previously existed.” He said shortly. “We have hope, of ending these days. That alone will bring me home to my Viola. Take your leave Hunter, tomorrow will be another long night.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Fare thee well brat!” Henryk cried. “Keep your copper clean, ay?”  
  
Smiling faces and grim smiles and bloody streets, swirling in mist, faded like the night as dawn broke.  
  


* * *

  
Gyomei Himejima awoke, alone save for the sound of birds above, and wept for the loss of innocent souls once more.  
  


* * *

  
“Gyomei.”  
  
Gyomei remained silent.  
  
“Gyomei, please rise.”  
  
He did not rise, remaining in _dogeza_ at the foot of his lord.  
  
“Gyomei, you haven’t failed yet.”  
  
“I have again failed to gain any answers, _Oyakata-sama._ ”  
  
He could not see, but he could hear the rustling of robes as Lord Ubuyashiki adjusted himself. His dreaming eyes did not follow him to the waking world, and he was pathetically grateful for it. He couldn’t bear to see disappointment in his Lord’s eyes, even as it trilled his heart.  
  
The Dreams, he’d been blessed with them. He’d closed his eyes in this world and opened them in another, one Oyakata-sama had understood to hold answers to the questions that plagued them. Perhaps they had understood this too, those bloody hunters, for they had understood him as kin on sight. Muzan was unfamiliar, though his touch was not.  
  
And yet.  
  
“Another night has been wasted.” Gyomei said sorrowfully. Hot tears ran down his face once more, well-worn tracks aching. “Innocents suffer for my laziness.”  
  
“None doubt your effort Gyomei.” The words were kind, but they stung.  
  
“I will strive evermore, Oyakata-sama.”  
  
He felt the attention of his Lord and the Heir upon his scarred brow.  
  
“It…” There was a catch to his Lord’s voice. “No. Nevermind. I will trust you, Gyomei.”  
  
 _I am unworthy._  
  
He held his tongue. It would not do to burden his Lord’s shoulders with evermore worries.  
  
Bowing his head lowly once more, he retreated from the mansion, to his forest exile.  
  


* * *

  
 _Thud_  
  
His hands struck stone once more. He drew a stiff breath, _in and out_ , and struck.  
  
 _Thud_  
  
The basics. Whether awake or dreaming, his Breath kept him alive and moving. His nights were rarely restful, but he took solace in these quiet moments.  
  
The Breath of Stone was a harsh one. Unending weathering, constant refining. Every day, he stood, and he struck stone, until his palms turned to basalt and his bones to granite. Then he struck again, and felt himself compress further. Breathe, but breathe slowly. Let the air filter through your body. Like water through stone, trickle down. Slowly. Expand, contract, and strike.  
  
 _Thud_  
  
Again.  
  
 _Thud_  
  
Until you are strong.  
  
 _Thud_  
  
Until you are worthy.  
  
 _Thud_  
  
 _Thud_  
  
 _Thud_

* * *

“Oh, good hunter...”  
  
He sat, there, on the cobbled floor. The poor doll sat beside him, jointed fingers beseeching.  
  
“Good hunter, why do you not partake?”  
  
She had asked him, over and over. The blood echoes she described whispering to her, the torpid wash of runes unspeakable, gems like jewels dancing in the light. Round and round and round, they circled the drain, the abyss of madness just beyond. Perhaps she didn’t understand, she was simply a doll, the poor thing. Made to know, but perhaps not to understand. No matter, her kindness was real, and for that he would teach her.  
  
No peace would man find of such depravity. The prayer fell from his lips easily, and for a moment the doll and he bowed their heads to the souls of the lost, those whose graves anchored this world to another in lost memory.  
  
“I will never.” He spoke, finally, gently but firmly. Her wooden fingers tightened on his sleeve.  
  
“You will die, good hunter. The scent of the moon is upon you, they will follow. The beasts are human no longer. They will track you to the ends of the earth.”  
  
“Then I will die.” Words he’d long accepted to be true. He’d fight and die for people to live on. He would never disgrace his beloved lord with anything less. “But until then, I will fight Demons for the people, and you.”  
  
She had a kind smile. He was glad when she’d learned how.  
  
He had no use for them, these gems, so he gave them to her. Bloodstones and droplets, congealed gore. They were as dreamlike as the world, but he found she enjoyed looking at them. She wore them now, about her wrist, sliding them bead after bead down the twine tie. He’d made it similar to his own prayer beads, in hopes it would grant her kind soul similar comfort.  
  
She was scared for him, he could tell. But perhaps she was a little relieved as well.  
  


* * *

  
The demons were a constant presence. Bestial or humanlike, they without fail sought the flesh of innocents for some unseen master’s sick pleasure. He had seen it take hold, the darkening of pleasure, the dilation in dim candlelight and flickering torchlight. He didn’t approve of Gascoigne and Henryk partaking, but he’d say nothing. He would watch, and support, and if need be put them down. They knew, and chose to do so anyway to aid him, and for that he was grateful.  
  
Eileen however, was a different sort. The aged woman was spry for one so infirm, hopping rooftop after rooftop in those thin leathers of hers. She rarely walked with them, choosing instead to range afar, to find others willing to aid their mission. And yet every time she returned was to be celebrated, for he always welcomed her wry intelligence.  
  
“The path is blocked.” She said bluntly, and Gyomei turned to the two aged men beside him. They exchanged looks.  
  
“We could-”  
  
“-absolutely not.” Gascoigne shot down Henryk before he could speak. Henryk shot the man an unknowable look, but spoke no further.  
  
Gyomei watched. He _watched_. To see again was no blessing however, and his ears grew dull with their reliance. This world was not one so pleasant to witness, daubed in blood as it was.  
  
But Eileen was no stranger to silent men, and she understood.  
  
“Cathedral Ward.” Was the simple answer, and Gascoigne growled his rejection.  
  
“We will _not_ approach the church.” He snapped. “That’s final. We need nothing to do with them, or they with us.”  
  
“They have answers.” Was her quiet response.  
  
The reply was near feral.  
  
“They will have _no part in this_ , do you understand? The church does not _aid_ , it _gives_ and then it _takes_.”  
  
Eileen did not respond, though the grip on her blades grew tight. Gascoigne’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“We will need another path then.” Gyomei spoke haltingly. He was unfamiliar with this land, but he was no stranger to the beastlike grips of rage. Gascoigne would not budge.  
  
“There is no other path.” Eileen hissed. “Every path leads _to_ the church, every path moves _from_ it. The church _is_ the beating heart of Yharnam.”  
  
Gascoigne moved to reply, but Henryk’s raised hand held his tongue.  
  
“They come.”  
  
Slinking from the darkness, the demons prowled. Their eyes were maddened, and beneath the flesh crafted stood another innocent life stolen. Gyomei slowly drew forth his axe, flail uncurling itself as beside him bells rang.  
  
They paused, good sense warring with the foreign need for flesh. All newborn were like this, the instincts raw, the need unpolished.  
  
The moment where the last of their humanity fell away. Tears streaked down his cheeks, as he watched them die a second time, become fully the monsters another wished them to be.  
  
His body was already moving, axe swinging as he tore one’s head clean off. Gascogne was not far behind, roaring beside Henryk as they dove together at the largest of the brood. The beasts scattered as Gyomei slammed into them, one arm releasing the axe to slam an open palm into a beasts skull.  
  
Like wet fruit it pulped, a smooth, grainy texture beneath his numbed hands. He swept his hand to the left, crushing into another like an overripe melon, knuckles sending bone skittering into the dark. It was soft, it was moist, it was warm, but his heart remained stone.  
  
 _In, out_  
  
He wept a prayer for the lost. Another night, and yet more innocents cried to be freed.


	2. Good Moon Hunting II

“My Lord, I failed once more.” His forehead slammed into the dirt, old scars aching once more as twigs tore into the worn flesh. “Answers continue to elude me.”  
  
“Son.” A man hefted his rake behind Gyomei. “Son, that’s a rock.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” Tears trickled down the bridge of his nose. “For my lord is in my heart, and it is he I apologize to.”  
  
He’d taken leave of his Lord earlier in the day to follow a lead, unable to convey his progress in person.  
  
“It’s commendable for someone to hold to their faith so strongly.” The farmer said warmly. “But you need to make your own way in life, son.”  
  
“My lord is a real person.” He informed, clapping his hands thrice, and bowing to the image in his heart. “Which perhaps makes such a task unnecessary.”  
  
The farmer paused in chewing a bit of plant in confusion. “Your lord is the rock?”  
  
“No.” Tears flowed harder. “But it’s all I dare face with my failings. Perhaps if I show my regret sincerely enough, _Oyakata-sama_ will understand.”  
  
“He won’t.” The farmer said bluntly.  
  
“He will.” Gyomei refuted, slowly standing. “He always does.” He cast his eyes to the sky, to see a little corvid passing through the trees, barking its urgency.  
  
 _No fear, Oyakata-sama. I understand._  
  
“You’re an odd one.” The farmer said slowly.  
  
“Perhaps.” He said. “Let us come to an understanding of the matter in the hereafter.”  
  
He slowly drew his axe, letting it ring in the silent breeze. The farmer paused, suddenly focusing on the cold steel.  
  
“Are you going to kill her immediately?”  
  
His mien was steady, but the draw in his voice revealed his exhaustion.  
  
Gyomei turned sightless eyes upon him. He moved like a man twice his stated age. The stress had been cruel to him, as had fate. Gyomei reached, to where he heard the rub of fabric shift in the world, and clapped the man’s shoulder.  
  
“Do you wish to mourn.”  
  
“I’ve done nothing but.” He croaked.  
  
“Then let us be done with the duty.”  
  
Further down the road they walked, the sun warm on his shoulders, until they came to a place from which no wind blew.  
  
The smell began from here. Cloying, teasing his senses, the hints of rosemary and viscera were heady indeed.  
  
He crouched a little, and dug his hands into the soft loam. It have way easily to his blunt fingers, mashing up as he drove his fist in deeper, turning to paste as he kneaded it.  
  
His thumb found them, the shards of splintered bone. Light and porous, they flexed in his gentle grip. His fingers wormed around it, feeling the bite of some foreign weapon where it cut into the material.  
  
He raised his head, listening to the farmer slowly walk up behind him. His breathing was shallower, the trembling in his limbs shuddering through the earth.  
  
Gyomei breathed deeply as he splayed his fingers into the earth, pressing them deeper in, then deeper still, falling to his knees as he took in the battlefield.  
  
 _Ready_  
  
“Where is she.” He spoke calmly.  
  
“Ah-head.” The farmer’s teeth were chattering, emotion forcing quiet groans past his lips. “In my...my old home.”  
  
The cottage was dark to his senses. The smell of gore around him was strong, and as he rose to his feet, he felt it cake his knees and legs, the sticky feeling creeping up his thighs.  
  
 _Clack_  
  
His prayer beads rattled as his grip tightened. The sound of bells was once more in the air.  
  
“Your wife - did she wear earrings?”  
  
“I-I gave them to her.” He stammered. “Silver, shaped like an Azalea.”  
  
The chime drifted, a leaf on a lake, she danced leaving only ripples for him to follow.  
  
“She spoke, did she not?”  
  
What he saw upon Gyomei’s face, he would never know, but his voice was quietly trembling as he responded. “She asked me why I was late.”  
  
 _Sane? She’s left the hunger phase. I was right to not allow one of the children to try_  
  
His head was on a swivel, trying to track the errant sounds.  
“When did she kill your family.”  
  
The farmer did not speak for a moment. Gyomei felt a thrill of dismay.  
  
“Six years ago.”  
  
 _Intelligent? She’s hunting me. The blood was intentional. She knew I was coming. The farmer is in grave danger._  
  
“You should not have come.” He said tightly, large body stepping lightly over the leaves.  
  
“ _I’m sorry._ ” He said hoarsely. “I should’ve told someone sooner, but I-I couldn’t-”  
  
“No.” Gyomei placed his hand on the man’s head. He only rose to chest-height. “You tried to move on. You succeeded, did you not?”  
  
He felt the man nod.  
  
“Then you were brave to come back. I thank you, for this.” He smiled gently. “You have done us a service.”  
  
Gyomei turned away from the farmer before he allowed his tears to flow once more. _Six years_ he mourned. _Six years the travellers here suffered because we failed to notice the demon._  
  
One step to the side, and the ground beside him exploded. Wincing, he hopped away, frantically trying to hear the sound of her footsteps. Wind whistled, and he ducked as he felt something hot flash past his head. It tugged his head, and he felt the ends of his hair fray.  
  
 _Mitsuri will be upset_  
  
One more flash, but this time, he stepped in, twisting his body, and chambered his leg.  
  
He waited, like that, until he felt the kiss of wind on his bare arms.  
  
 _Breath of Stone - Rockslide_  
  
And _crushed_. Mulch-like material flew past as he _drove_ his foot in and through, nearly stumbling forward as it gave way.  
  
A quiet gasp echoed, and he withdrew his leg with a wet _slurp_.  
  
She stumbled back, feet scuffing the earth.  
  
His eyes throbbed. “Farmer, are you alright.”  
  
A quiet groan was his response. It would do.  
  
The demon squealed, harsh against his ears, and dashed to the left.  
  
“Please.” He spoke gently, standing tall. “Speak of Muzan. I beg you.”  
  
The response was naught but gurgles. She’d lost herself. Perhaps she’d given her mind to the instinct long ago, whatever true intellect left used up to allow her husband to escape.  
  
“Then be at peace.”  
  
He would not extend her suffering. He drew his blade, and it was silent once more.  
  


* * *

  
Sight was a curious thing. It put lie to his other senses, in a way, made him question what he felt. It was a tool he wielded gracelessly. The blur of movement disoriented him, light blinded him, shadows gnawed at his bones.  
  
Two steps back with his eyes shut, and the world was clear once more.  
  
Grimacing, he opened his lids, forced himself to take in the Impure World once more.  
  
His vision had been taken in the Waking World, but more and more he considered it a blessing. Vision impaired him. It tempted and beguiled and compromised his judgement and actions.  
  
‘ _Eyes, grant us eyes!’_ They cried, these demons. What did they wish to behold, in this world?  
  
“Hunter.”  
  
He did not turn. He could not trust what he saw.  
  
Perhaps Eileen understood this, as she didn’t bother moving into his line of sight, standing by his side instead.  
  
“What are you looking at?”  
  
“The sunset.” Gyomei replied. She shifted beside him, leather creaking as she craned her head up.  
  
“Ah. Worth watching.”  
  
“What do you see?”  
  
She was silent for a moment.  
  
“It’s clean.” She said, at last. “It’s nice to see something that stays beautiful no matter how many days pass.”  
  
“See, hm?”  
  
“You’re crying.” She said absently.  
  
“It’s not so strange.” He replied.  
  
“It would be, for another.”  
  
“I resent it.” He spoke honestly, for fear the words would lose themselves. “I am blind in the waking world, but why can vision tempt me so? My heart shook when I beheld the world again, Eileen. I am a poor excuse of a Pillar. I’ve lost the stability that made me worthy.”  
  
He heard her fold her arms, the firm weight of her clothing emphasizing the pull of cloth over her taut biceps.  
  
But she did not speak, for she had no answer. But she stood, and her presence remained welcoming. And so he continued to take in the dipping sun with clear eyes, until the last dregs of light fell past the horizon.  
  
“Gascoigne and Henryk will arrive soon.” She spoke at last, and finally turned to move away. “The night grows long Hunter, mind that your heart doesn’t waver in battle.”  
  
He did not reply, for he had no answer either.  
  


* * *

  
“EILEEN! HURRY!”  
  
The crowfeather hunter tore out of the chapel, rounding the corner to see Henryk carrying a wounded Gascoigne on his back, gasping for breath as he stumbled up the short staircase. Keeping a lookout, she ushered them in silently, watching for followers.  
  
Gyomei looked up, focus broken as Gascoigne slumped against the raised bannister, a panting Henryk cursing the moon, the stars, the trees and every damned man that called himself Father. A vial rolled past, and a quick look at the storage revealed it was the last one. However, Gascoigne was still bleeding, even as the wounds struggled to knit.  
  
It would need some help.  
  
The Overseer murmured a little in his fitful rest as he whipped Henryk’s weapons out if the way, and Gyomei felt a pang of regret. They had cost the man his sanctuary. Henryk had the manners, at least, to quiet upon recalling their location, and aided Gyomei as they hefted Gascoigne up the stairs and into a leftover seat. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, teeth grit so tight his whole jaw was pale as he held down his bloody shirt.  
  
Gyomei ripped the shirt off, piece by piece, ignoring the way Gascoigne went bloodless. The good Father was a tough man, and the last bits of blood would keep him alive. He had to hurry lest the scent of blood spread. Tossing the cloth to Henryk, who began tearing it to strips, he pulled out the blade of the Hammer, jamming it into the coal flame that burned in the center of the room.  
  
Stirring occasionally, he looked away as the men traded vials of crimson, harsh rebukes forced back from his lips. Instead, he waited for the blade to finally turn a smooth cherry before lifting it from the flame. He nodded in satisfaction; the blade was a smooth one, thick and unornamented. Whirling around, he moved to Gascoigne’s side, and trading nods with the man who bit down on a bundle of spare cloth, laid it flat over the wound.  
  
Gascoigne’s growls grew bestial as his flesh popped and blistered, pork and bile filling the air, but as the blade drew away the wound was sealed. He had not raised his voice above a whisper.  
  
Henryk moved past him quickly, already winding bandages soaked in bloody concoction over the cooling flesh.  
  
“What _happened_?!” Eileen hissed, stalking back into Oedon Chapel as the three men worked quickly to clean off the blood. “You said you would speak to them! The goddamn giants are patrolling the streets, _what did you do?!_ ”  
  
“They took exception.” Gascoigne spat, throat raw. “I knew my reception would be poor, but to go to the extent of making example of us?”  
  
“They are losing manpower.” Gyomei said. His beads _clacked_ in his folded hands. “They need to enforce their authority.”  
  
“They can _hang._ ” Henryk cursed. “No hunter will dare return to their arms after tonight. Striking down Gascoigne for simply leaving their Order? Madness.”  
  
“You think they want _us_ , you wrinkled has-been?” Eileen laughed harshly. “We’re already ticking down. How many times has the good Father nearly lost control? How many times has Viola put herself in danger to calm your restless heart? We’re liabilities. _Threats._ ”  
  
“Should’ve talked to the Hunters instead.” Gascoigne grunted. “They remember.”  
  
His eyes drifted, cloudy, and they knew the night had taken its toll on him. Henryk left him, yellow jacket tucked around Gascoigne’s body, revealing his own weathered face. The man was aged, wrinkles casting harsh lines in the thin light from the flames.  
  
“I will try again.” Gyomei spoke in an undertone as he approached. Eileen’s head snapped to him. “Absolutely not.” She hissed. “They will never trust a foreigner.”  
  
“You trusted me.”  
  
“I trusted your _vision_.” She stressed. “Your dream and your information. I did not trust _you._ ”  
  
“ _Do_ not, you mean.” He rebuked mildly. She didn’t flinch.  
  
“Is there a reason, you need to go it alone, then?” Henryk grunted quietly. The salt in his beard belied the yet unerring focus in his eyes. For the moment, at least, he remained in control.  
  
But it wasn’t enough. He recognized the sickness in their blood from across the bridge, the church could no doubt identify them the same.  
  
“I need information.” Gyomei spoke plainly. “I will negotiate a trade; what I know for theirs. Having you by my side will weaken my position.”  
  
He slowly stood, dust pouring off the back of his pants, as the two Hunters cast bitter looks out the door where the Church hunters prowled.  
  
“Rest. I will return.”


	3. Good Moon Hunting III

The church streets were dark this time of night, the flickering lamplight hardly illuminating a few feet.  
  
Gyomei’s eyes fluttered, the urge to open them and _see_ almost overpowering. He could _see_ the raised flagstone that threatened his footing, the belltower that chimed midnight off to his right, the deep breathing of some large being up ahead, the chime of steel on stone. It would be so _easy_.  
  
His heart of stone trembled under his firm will.  
  
Gyomei Himejima allowed none of his internal turbulence to show. Eyes shut, he moved slowly, weapon lowered and arms at his side. He had more ways to see than eyes. It would do. Gods help him, it would have to.  
  
The kiss of wind revealed the scent of dogs in the bushes, the gentle rumbling underfoot informing him that they had raised the gates.  
  
Reinforcements?  
  
Nay, a raiding party.  
  
 _“The Church does not ‘raid’, boy.” Gascoigne would growl, mixed longing and disgust on his face. “This is their land to arbitrate. Jury of armed peers and a judge to oversee with his blessed hammer, so does the church’s ‘court’ rove the streets. Careful you give them no cause to do so.”_  
  
Gyomei rolled a bead between his fingers, the scent of incense buoying his spirits. At least, it was the only one he found less than offensive to his senses. Misery was the scent of waste and garbage on the breeze, rank mildew and fetid gore seeping into his pores. He felt it, even when he woke once more. Clinging to him.  
  
This place had a way with such things. Clinging. It clung to everything, even what little he saw a hash of historical edifice and ameliorated construction. The past was not so far here, a sentiment he understood deeply.  
  
The frustration. The _search_. Why hadn’t they left what they knew behind? What had they sought?  
  
What had they _found_?  
  
He walked, feeling the way forwards in the breeze and his instincts. They screamed, as they had since he had appeared in this land. Something beyond him lay ahead. High above, it watched.  
  
He felt stairs underfoot, and began to climb.  
  
They wound and twisted, curved and bent, the railing wrecked. He let it go wistfully, continuing onwards without their support. Some of the steps were slick, others crumbling. There was a weight here, to this path. The center was worn. People had traversed these steps often.  
  
But only in one direction.  
  
“Halt.”  
  
He felt their attention, a frisson across his skin as they sized him up. These churchmen, they stood above him. Even through his shut lids, he could feel the heat of their lamps.  
  
Rightfully, they ascertained the threat he posed, as he did the same.  
  
“I wish to deal in information.”  
  
“Very well.” The voice ahead spoke, slightly muffled. “Speak.” He ignored the urge to look, trusting the reflexive analysis his own practiced senses provided.  
  
 _“Just kill them all.” Henryk would advise. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Trust me, I know.”_  
  
Muffled voice, sterile smell, a heavy rasp of clothing. Mask, gloves, heavy robes.  
  
Fear. Dirt. Waste and filth. Moonlight and embalming fluid.  
  
Beneath it all, antiseptic and acid.  
  
“What have you quarantined?”  
  
A slight catch in breath. Gyomei allowed the fear to sink into his bones. Henryk was wrong this time.  
  


* * *

  
“Step no further, Gyomei-sama.”  
  
Gyomei paused on the threshold, the warm currents from beyond it buffeting him. It eased his bones, relaxed his muscles.  
  
“To tread further is to step into God’s land.” The stern voice called. The shiver to it belied his age.  
“Forgive me.” Gyomei murmured, lowering his head. “But I must pass.”  
  
“You and your kind are not permitted to step into God’s land. Your work must be done elsewhere. No blood may be shed, not now.”  
  
“Not now that your God has finally step foot on his domain?” Gyomei questioned mildly. The voice caught.  
  
Wood rattled, the inner sanctum trembled. It likely could not hear, but it questioned.  
  
“ _There is no Kami in this shrine._ ” Gyomei whispered, man unknown leaning over him from the top of the steps, but a few feet away. “ _Only a demon that took it’s form. If one existed here, it is long gone. God’s land is sacrosanct no more._ ”  
  
A long silence. High overhead, the _torii_ creaked.  
  
“ _I know_.”  
  
The chill air was being blown away, replaced by something homely.  
  
“ _But the people may not doubt. Now of all times, the Kami of the shrine must be seen as holy._ ”  
  
The warm air grew thick, overpowering. And yet, it was pleasant. Gyomei had grown familiar with this feeling, the syrupy feeling of a soporific trawling his veins. His gorge turned to mud.  
  
“ _I chased it for 3 miles, sir._ ” Gyomei muttered, shifting his weight. “ _It is weak. Vulnerable. Please, it will take but a moment. No one will see. Turn away, and it will be done._ ”  
  
“ _I will **not**_ **.** _Not while believers continue to visit._ ”  
  
 _“The demon already has found a way to hunt.”_ Gyomei’s hand cut through the heavy air. “ _Your visitors are at risk!_ ”  
  
The empty-air sound of lips peeling apart. The elderly man before him was smiling.  
  
“ _That is not the demon’s doing._ ”  
  
 _Ah_ , Gyomei thought. _Perhaps this man was already prepared for this_.  
  
“I will see you tonight, then, sir.” He said.“Tonight.” The elderly priest agreed.  
  


* * *

Gyomei grimly stalked back to the chapel, thoughts swirling through his head. An odd scraping caught his attention however. An odd clinking and scraping. Overcome with curiosity, he reluctantly opened his eyes.  
  
The moonlight was blessedly gentle on his vision, but it still took a few moments to resolve his visual input into actual shapes.  
  
Henryk was kicking aside some everpresent plants, dragging the body of a church hunter into the chapel. The scruffy greyish-green weeds sprung stubbornly back, barbed leaves catching his clothing and making him trip. The sack he’d been carrying behind him resolved itself when an arm flopped free.  
  
“ **Bring it here** ” came the call from deeper in. Gyomei gingerly stepped around Henryk and his luggage. The body bore a pale white mask and long robes.  
  
“These churchmen are a right pain and a half.” Henryk grunted in an undertone, kicking away at some of the raised flagstones, casting his eyes about cautiously. Gyomei eyed the body with new eyes; so _this_ was what he’d been speaking to? They seemed a great deal more intimidating now, the massive body corded with muscle and shot through with scars. Gyomei respectfully clapped his hands together.  
  
“Why did you kill him.” He murmured after a moment. Henryk grunted. “I’ll tell you once we get away from-”  
  
Further down, a caw. A crow poked its head around the corner, looking at their exposed flesh greedily.  
  
“-from scavengers.” He muttered with a curse. He kicked the corpse’s hand back onto it’s chest, and hefted its leg again, dragging it forwards. “Inside.”  
  
Gyomei nodded, turning and moving inside backwards, keeping a wary eye out for shadows before he ducked back inside to the warm hall. He felt some indiscernible wariness ease as he took in the scent of foreign incense wafting around him. Eileen was up on the upper platform, re-lighting the burners that had gone out from the chill breeze. Gascoigne sat behind her, in the center of the platform. The scent of blood grew strong once more, a slumped mass laid at his crossed feet. The lights about him cast a ghoulish glare on him, as he sat with dripping cleaver upraised.  
  
With a swift stroke, he severed something from the bloody pulped mass, stripping it away with a violent tug. He hefted it once, twice, and tossed it at Henryk, who dropped the limb he’d been carrying and caught it.  
  
It was a jawbone, shredded jaw muscles flapping a little.  
  
“Strip the teeth.” Gascoigne grunted absently. “We need to replace some tines on the shredding tools.”  
  
Gyomei allowed none of his internal disgust and unease to show. A tug at his sleeve revealed the owner of the chapel at his side, where he’d been seated on a nice cushion they’d rustled up for the poor man. He tugged again, and Gyomei leaned down, allowing the man to speak in a gentle undertone.  
  
“ _Don’t be afeared, Mr. Hunter._ ” He spoke. “ _Been at it for an hour now, they have. They mentioned you’re new to the area, yeah?_ ”  
  
“I am indeed.”  
  
The dweller chuckled nervously. “ _Then I wager you’ve never seen the like. They mention that, the visitors._ ”  
  
“They say the like because they’ve never fought the Hunt.” Eileen said sharply. Gascoigne grunted in agreement.  
  
Sharp ears, Gyomei noted.  
  
The dweller fidgeted. He’d evidently not expected to have been overheard. “Tell me more.” Gyomei spoke gently. The dweller relaxed a little.  
  
What a terribly lonely man. How lonely they all were.  
  
“ _Old hunter trick, I hear_.”  
  
Henryk pulled out a saw spear. “Look here.” He ran a finger down the edge of the blade, and then up the flat, until his fingers found a seam, a vein of red running the length. “See that?”  
  
“What _is_ that?” Gyomei had seen it before, of course. He’d never asked because...  
  
It _pulsed_. The vein quivered, expanding and contracting, like a heartbeat.  
  
“Bloodstone.” Henryk flicked the steel of the blade, and it rang like a bell. “Probably the most valuable commodity this side of Coldblood or a _very_ nice cocktail.”  
  
“More.” Gascoigne grunted. “Hard to come by. Strengthens steel.”  
  
 _Strengthens_ steel? “How.”  
  
“It’s...” Gascoigne was briefly lost for words.  
  
“It’s parasitic.” Eileen cut in, shooting Gasoigne a withering look of contempt. “Some churchman.”  
  
Gascoigne’s cheeks ruddied with temper. “I was no prancing choirman.” He snapped slowly. “I didn’t care what treatments they offered so long as it allowed us to clean the streets.”  
  
She snorted. “Excuses. You simply failed to pay attention.”  
  
Henryk chuckled lowly, but Gascoigne had no answer, striking instead at the pulped body he was...harvesting...with more force than strictly necessary. Eileen turned back to Gyomei with some satisfaction.  
  
“The bloodstones are parasitic to some degree.” She explained slowly. “They’re embedded in steel. Good bloodstone is hard to come by.”  
  
With a loud grunt, Gascoigne wrested something from the stump of the corpse’s head, holding up something that glinted wet in the faint light.  
  
“It forms in the blood.” He said with grim satisfaction. “Only in the strong ones. This one fed well.”  
  
Henryk snickered a little. He smacked the head of his churchman a bit, sending the jowls swinging. “You’ve been a great help.” He spoke to the empty eyes intently.  
  
“What is the rest for?” Gyomei spoke, disapproving of their cavalierness.  
  
“Tools.” Eileen held up a whetstone, and what looked like a sharpened hoop of bone.  
  
“All hunter’s weapons are tools.” Henryk offered his spear by way of explanation. “Good for tissue.”  
  
Gascoigne waggled his saw without looking up. “Bone.” He slowly stood up from the body, stretching. He was covered in blood. “Limbs. Connective tissue and suchlike.”  
  
Eileen’s knives gleamed in the candlelight. “Shaped for skin, once upon a time.” She said coldly. “Skin and hide. We had to adapt what we had. Eventually they got more specialized. Better at doing the job.”  
  
Henryk chortled. “Some were more successful than others. Those crazy bastards over in the Otto Workshop adapted mining tools.”  
  
Both Gascoigne and Eileen paused to grimace.  
  
“Messy.” Gyomei observed.  
  
Henryk nodded cheerily. “Very.”  
  
“But those.” Gyomei clicked his fingers, pointing towards the long-handled blade that lay discarded to the side. “Church weapon, no?”  
  
“The _church_.” Gascoigne said with thin lips. “Has no need to perform such tasks. They have _people_ for that.” He turned and delivered a swift kick to the pulped body at his feet. It burst with a wet sound, spraying some blood and bits of organ.  
  
They stared at the body, where it lay. Looping claws adorned it’s paws, and tufts of storm-blue hair still dotted its purpling flesh. It’s bones were yellow, but thick, dense and sturdy. Ordinary weapons would not do. He could not judge these Hunters for their desperation, no matter how repugnant their methods.  
  
But that cold pragmatism settled like a weight in his belly. His hands tightened on his own weapons. He could not judge them. But he could choose. And he would choose not to partake. The offer was implicit in their explanation, the offer to make his weapons better. _Stronger_.  
  
But he would never forget that even these beasts were victims. He would never stoop to desecrating their bodies. His own Nichirin Blade was made to be something more than a tool. It was symbolic, in a way that perhaps only these churchmen would understand. He eyed their decorated weapons, and in them recognized a hope, a prayer. One he was familiar with.  
  
Damnnation. Who could he truly call responsible, when everyone here seemed to be a victim?  
  
Gyomei cast his eyes about awkwardly, until they caught on the long, darkly polished polearm that Gascoigne began hefting off the floor. “What about that?”  
  
It was elegant. Fitted together tightly, with fine rivets and a plated barrel. Gascoigne’s beloved axe.  
  
“Trees.” Gascoigne said simply.  
  
Gyomei eyed the massive axe doubtfully. “Trees?”  
  
Henryk aped a two handed grip, walking over to Gascoigne and swinging into his legs. Gascoigne mimed falling, clawing at his ‘severed’ knee, while Henryk wound up a second swing to his thighs.  
  
“Trees.” Eileen said drily.  
  
Gascoigne and Henryk chuckled darkly.  
  
Gyomei, despite his misgivings, felt a smile cross his lips. “There’s one you didn’t mention, however.”  
  
“Oh?” “What’s that boya?”  
  
Gyomei pointed to an innocuous long-handled ivory cane with a truly vicious looped blade fitted at the tip.  
  
Henryk coughed. “Don’t mind that one. Product of a...of another time.”  
  
Gyomei looked at it. The hidden razors glinted a bit. Gascoigne was pointedly not looking at it, but he’d not be able to pry the story from them this night. He gave up, amused. “What now?”  
  
“Now.” Eileen slowly eased herself to the floor, expression hidden. “Now, we rest. Then, the churchman.”


	4. Good Moon Hunting IV

“Im-mu-ta-ble.” The Doll enunciated.  
  
Gyomei stumbled over the word. The accent of his mother tongue continued to plague him in his attempts to master this new language. Perhaps his fellow hunters had the patience to bear it, but the heaviness of his mouth continued to frustrate him.  
  
 _“You may even use the doll, should you wish.” Gehrman whispered.  
  
“Oh, I...plan to.” Gyomei assured, speaking thickly. At the time, he’d only spoken what little English he picked up from his rare sojourns into the cities.  
  
Gehrman’s eyebrows vanished under his hairline. “That’s...” the man seemed lost for words. “That’s good...” The elderly man slowly wheeled his chair around, slowly making for the door. He seemed lost. “I’m glad.”  
  
Gyomei was surprised. Had he not been meant to speak to her? It was already shocking that she spoke Japanese so fluently.  
  
The Doll’s dress rustled as she moved, stopping at the doorway behind him. Gyomei blinked heavily as he turned to face her, the light still blinding.  
  
“You will not come inside?” He questioned in his native tongue.  
  
“Never, dear hunter. This room is Gehrman’s alone; he requested I never step foot inside. It is the only place where he may be miserable in peace.” She replied in flawless japanese. No ill-intent was meant by her words; the man very clearly knew and wished to remain melancholy.  
  
“He is wallowing.” Gyomei understood. He could not help the thrill of scorn in his chest; he did not understand at the time the weight of what Gehrman bore.  
  
“Forgive him, sweet Hunter.” She whispered, hair framing the light in whorls, “For a long time, it was only he and I, the hunters of his time long passed.”  
  
“Lonely.”  
  
“Very.” She agreed. “He built me for love. But he taught me for loneliness. The Dream remained empty for much of this time; it was not until Lawrence himself that another trod these stones.”  
  
“You learned Japanese?”  
  
“Another taught me.” She blinked her glass eyes, turning to face one of the many graves dotting the region. “I built his stone myself, and carved it in his tongue. He was a good teacher. It brought him joy in his last days, unlike the thoughts of his home in the East.”  
  
The japanese she spoke was nearly a different dialect, odd inflections and contractions punctuating every sentence. It was as much struggle to understand her as it was for her to parse his words; in this they were equals.  
  
“Teach me.” Gyomei requested earnestly. “Teach me English.”  
  
She turned back to him. “Very well, dear Hunter. Then you must spend time here every day. Are you sure you wish to do that?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Her doll face had not the wherewithal to smile, but the look in her eyes warmed him. So deeply he forgot chill altogether for a bare moment._  
  
“You’re doing very well Gyomei.” She soothed. Gyomei, however, was not so easily placated. Learning a new language was hard, this one even worse than most he’d heard. It was nonsense! Bizarre conjugations and nonsensical structures. He despised English.  
  
Hunched over a too-small notebook as the messengers cavorted about him, he frowned deeply into the pages. A tug at his ankles revealed itself to be a messenger bearing the crude pen he’d hurled aside. The liquid inside reeked of brine, an insult to the stately ink his own master possessed and ground for use. He took it grudgingly to resume his penmanship.  
  
Time passed in this manner, the Doll’s endless patience at times frustrating and at times soothing. But always she remained, silent as the nib continued to scrawl across the page.  
  
Then, between one moment and the next, a breeze gusted the back of his neck, and Gyomei whirled around with his blades drawn, a roaring bloodlust borne of a sudden fear echoing in his cry.  
  
Gehrman chuckled, wheeling himself past the taller man, and slowly reached down to the fallen notebook. Gyomei held himself, tense with a sudden cold sweat drenching his shirt.  
  
The man had made no noise! Even his damned wheelchair had been silent!  
  
“Hunter, you’ve made good use of the doll I see.” He grinned, flipping through the pages with an odd twinkle in his eye. The old man continued to chortle to himself, snapping the book shut and tossing it to Gyomei as he wheeled to the little messengers and very gravely handed one a tophat no larger than a thimble.  
It squealed with a wordless glee, holding the little scrap of cloth aloft and with a great pride. All fell silent as the little beings began to fight amongst themselves for their newfound prize.  
  
“Sir Gyomei.” Gehrman spoke quietly, reclining easily into his chair. “Take some time in the waking world. Meet with those you know and call friend.” The doll silently stood and walked beside Gehrman, taking hold of the handles of the chair and beginning to wheel it back around towards the warm home at the top of the Dream.  
  
“How long do I have,” Gyomei called after him.  
  
“A sennight, no more.” Gehrman arms tightened on his armrests. “The scent of a hunt is in the air.”  
  


* * *

  
The crow flew high overhead. _Death!_ It called, _No respite! The Hunt is on!_  
  
Perhaps some of that was in his head, Gyomei mused wearily. Though he dreamed deeply, his rest was rarely satisfying.  
  
The midnight moon was chill on his shoulders as he stood stock-still  
  
 _‘Why do you shut your eyes, Gyomei-sama?’ whispered a voice like moonlight_  
  
Gyomei raised his hand reflexively, lifted them to his eyes, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching forwards.  
  
His fingertips touched his closed lids. They were trembling.  
  
Images roared past his shut lids, not a single one he’d seen in this world, all of the gothic beauty of faraway Yharnam. Oh! How he loathed it, cursed its name yet yearned to fall asleep!  
  
He lifted his hand away, and visions of that land fell away like cobwebs, leaving him in a fond darkness once more. There he stood, and allowed his consciousness to slowly drip away. Drop by drop, his focus settled, he grew conscious of the earth underfoot, the sound of the cricket to his left, the smell of a decaying body concealed under a thick, bitter pungence.  
  
And the demon, poised before him, holding its breath as though concealed, despite reeking of fear and excess. It moved smoothly, the sound of shells underfoot smoothly crumbling into a gravelly scrape as it began circling around him.  
  
The kind god of the shrine would surely not take offense to his actions, but nonetheless he did not wish to shed blood here.  
  
 _Have mercy on this pitiful land, ‘o demon, can you not tell even the beasts turn against you? The birdsong has fallen silent and the wolves prowl here no more._  
  
The demon charged him, and was met with a bone-shattering blow from his knee.  
  
 _I can see you, even without eyes._  
  
It screeched, loudly in pain, and began furiously whipping up the dirt about him, a whipcrack of flesh heralding the gale. A cloud of dust buffeted his clothes and strained even his prodigious strength. His feet slid into the dirt, head bowed as his hair threatened to tear itself from the roots of his skull, the pain anchoring him and centering his feet. The winds tore at his clothes and skin, and it was with gritted teeth that he finally brought his granite hands in front of him, crossing them and slowly moving forwards.  
  
And just as suddenly, the wind stopped. Gyomei stumbling forwards in shock, and instead using his newfound momentum to dash slightly to his right, the panicked beast squealing as he nearly collided with it. The strain in his ankle was blinding for a second as he halted his movement in the fraction of a second, spinning in place and swinging his other leg like a sledgehammer into the _demon_ before him. He felt throbbing flesh against his shin, and beneath it brittle bones as they splintered, tension gathering against his stone leg, the skin peeling apart until something gave way.  
  
His leg was awash with gore as he tore it through the demon, absorbing the force like sponge. The demon coughed wetly, a sound he wasn’t aware was possible through needle teeth and four tongues. Or so he felt, as he leaned forwards and seized it by the skull and went to dash it against the flagstones, only remembering at the last second a heartfelt request to not shed blood on sacred land.  
  
Alas! Gyomei’s heart softened and his hesitation nearly cost him, the demon sliding _up_ his leg in a fit of fury, unbalancing him as its intestines caught on his shins and nearly tipping him backwards until he lashed out.  
  
The demon’s maddened swipes tore his hand but a thunderous strike landed against something hard and tense before it shattered like eggshell, leaving him awash in filth.  
  
For a moment, all movement ceased. It was unsettling.  
  
Something wet slid down his hand.  
  
 _Forgive me_  
  


* * *

  
A voice like rain called to him as he stood in the carnage, treading lightly over the gore with no hesitation to his steps.  
  
“Gyomei.” The man rasped. “Are you still eating well.”  
  
“Giyu. I am, yes.”  
  
He continued to move, steps pattering over the body. There was no respect to the movements, no honor to the fallen. It exhausted Gyomei, though he had not the heart to challenge the younger man.  
  
The Water Pillar sighed slightly. “You’re crying again Gyomei. Are you sad?”  
  
The man stepped up quietly beside him, whispering softly, “ _Oyakata-sama_ sends his regards, and wished to transmit information.” Here he paused, the nuance of which was lost on Gyomei, but he’d chosen not to question the orders and that was a comfort. “Far in the north is a stone named _Seki_ that brings ruin.”  
  
Gyomei waited a moment. “Is that all?”  
  
The young man started slightly. “Yes, of course?”  
  
Gyomei fought back a sigh. How he wished this byplay and nuance remained far off from his domain, but he’d found himself caught in it’s eddies, tugging at his ankles.  
  
A messenger quietly burbled comfortingly in his ear, and Gyomei fought back the shiver. Indeed, one day, the messengers had appeared in this world.  
  
It made a man anxious.  
  
It made him question what a dream could be.  
  
Still, they held his weapons lovingly, and there were rare few places safer for his axes when not in his hands.  
  
“You turned your head to look at me.” Giyu whispered, and Gyomei felt his heart stop beating.  
  
“You haven’t done that in years Gyomei.” Giyu continued, and Gyomei knew the man was far from oblivious regarding Gyomei’s obvious distress. But how could he explain? How could Giyu ever understand?  
  
“Thank you, Giyu.” He said instead, and his words were final.  
  


* * *

  
_“Dear Hunter.” The Doll whispered softly behind him. “Why do you close your eyes.”  
  
“Because I cannot see.”  
  
“You have the eyes, Hunter.” Her dress rustled; she moved up beside him. The scrape of her porcelain feet on stone was harsh. “Use them.”  
  
Gyomei was silent for a moment.  
  
“I don’t know any other path to being strong.” He whispered. It was both avoidance and answer in one.  
  
“Others do.” She soothed. “Many. So many. People were strong before you. They will be strong after, too. Why hesitate?”  
  
“Because I chose this path.” The conviction in his chest was faltering. A tear ran down his cheek, one after another and soon they were running thick and fast down his cheeks.  
  
He clapped his hands together solemnly. _Namu Amida Butsu  
  
 _“It is the only path I know. The only one I chose to walk. My conviction is what makes me strong.”  
  
“You could be strong another way.” She spoke softly, but there was a hint of something else to it. Yearning. “Let me help you. I can make you strong. Stronger than any before, so long as you had the will for it.”  
  
“Even well-intentioned, never. Not in this lifetime or the next.”  
  
Her hand shook a little. They were pale white, smooth joints bending as they clenched, some filth staining some of the bony knuckles.  
  
Gyomei’s eyes were open. He’d opened them without meaning to.  
  
Damnation._


End file.
